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It was afternoon by the time I departed the coast. My GPS had ceased to work, but there were really no turn options and I was confident in my map. The drive took longer than I expected however, and I once again found myself fervently looking for somewhere to pitch my tent before dark.

The months ago my partners at WZRDmedia and I decided it would be interesting to tell my story through the lens of a short documentary. Initially, this came as a bit of a surprise to me. We’ve spent the last three years making Far From Home, the story of a past roommate of mine that had immigrated from Uganda and is attempting to become the first African to snowboard in the Olympics. In comparison, I didn’t think my story stood out.

“What the heck are the machetes for?” I ask, as he gets closer but before he has a chance to acknowledge me. On a level playing field now, he tells me “This one is for protecting my family. If the feds come I’m going to be up in the trees and jump down on them. And this one? This one is for my PB&J.”

It’s on the sixth of seven steps up to the bathroom that I recognize I’m not going to make it to the toilet. The last week of my existence has been spent laying completely prone in a Lay-Z-Boy chair in the living room of my Dillon, Colorado condo, and after downing nearly an entire prescription bottle of laxatives over the course of a week, the need to take a dump has finally hit me, and hit me hard. I don’t typically have a constipation problem, but after snapping my femur clear in half, I’ve been administered a cornucopia of drugs big enough to tranquilize a bear that has effectively put a halt on any bowel movements for the past seven days. To add to the dilemma, I’m living in a condo teetering on the side of the mountain. From the top down, and each on a separate floor, the layout includes a garage (at the top), kitchen and bathroom, living room, master bedroom, and guest bedrooms. You don’t have to be a math wiz to recognize that adds up to five different floors in a single condo. Before I’d broken my leg, my bed was at the very bottom, but out of necessity I had a hospital bed placed in the living room so I could access the kitchen and bathroom without a trip up four flights of stairs. Regardless, both sat a floor above the living room, so whenever I would need to eat or use the bathroom I’d have to load up my crutches and find a way up those seven dreaded steps.

Anytime I was forced to make my way up the stairs was a nightmare situation. I went so far as to limit myself to two meals a day because the thought of repeating the Herculean effort necessary to summit the stairs was simply too daunting. Falling backwards could leave me completely debilitated at the bottom of the stairs in excruciating pain until my roommates got home, so I’d always lean further forward on my crutches than I should be out of fear. This time however, leaning forward wasn’t enough. At stair six I come to the humiliating realization that I am 18 years old, and five seconds away from crapping myself. Crutching up the last stair, I’m in a mad “dash” to the bathroom door five feet away, but the door is closed, further slowing me down. Just as my hand closes on the golden doorknob it happens; a weeks worth of backed up bodily waste explodes into my sweat pants.

I’m standing within spitting distance of the porcelain goddess.

Dropping the crutches, I fall to the floor, hitting the sink hard with my broken leg and barely catching myself on the rim of the toilet bowl. The pain is otherworldly, causing the tears to begin flowing again like a glacial stream in the spring off my face as I struggle to regain footing on my right leg in order to actually sit on the toilet. There’s crap on the floor, crap in my pants, crap on the toilet seat, heck, it may have been on the ceiling.

I've wrestled with the title of this book for quite some time. When I first gave it to my English professor she immediately told me I had to change the name and that I was inadvertently contributing to the cultural appropriation of the Romanian people. This was news to me, so I figure it's import to give some context and a backstory to the title, less I offend the politically correct police. Here's the excerpt from 'Don't Call Me Gypsy':

"As the embers die, the conversation grows deeper and the shadows encroach closer on our small fire ring. One of the women asks me “So, your sort of like a gypsy right?” No. No, no, no, I say. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal. Nor can I read your palms and tell you if you will be dead in ten years or in an affair. Of course, I recognized the similarities, by some definitions, it fits. Webster adds “A person who leads an unconventional life. A person who moves from place to place as required by employment.” I am traveling across the country, without plan or destination, but I would prefer to be called a traveler or wanderer. I’ve got no job, and limited money, but I am not, I repeat to them, a gypsy. Politically correct bandwagon sticklers and Romani people will tell you that they earned the name gypsy references their nomadic lifestyle as the fled persecution throughout Europe."

I'm STOKED to have had such a positive response to my question of whether or not to do a Kickstarter campaign for this book. Want to stay up to date on progress? Sign up for the email list!